


high score

by redpaint



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Arcades, Fluff, M/M, Video & Computer Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 17:28:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29299683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpaint/pseuds/redpaint
Summary: It's the summer of 1982, Lights Out is the first arcade in the greater Rochester area to get Pole Position, and Mika can't seem to top the high score set by the player known asMS.
Relationships: Mika Häkkinen/Michael Schumacher
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19
Collections: F1 Soup Kitchen Chocolate Box 2021





	high score

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gertika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gertika/gifts).



> for Gertika — surprise! again! lord knows how many months after telling you i'd write this ship, it finally happened. thank you for the amazing prompts here, they were so up my alley it's silly. hope you like it!
> 
> this fic is best enjoyed while listening to Me and Michael by MGMT

_(Summer 1982)_

There’s a lot to hate about Pine View Shopping Center. It’s the older of the two malls in town, only one level, and the selection of stores reflects that. It closes at 10 and the food court sucks and it’s so deep into the suburbs that it’s some kind of tragic social center, but at least it has one redeeming feature — Lights Out is the first arcade in the greater Rochester area to get Pole Position installed and running.

Keke says he knows a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy at Atari, and that’s good enough for Mika. Unfortunately, Mika isn’t working until the day after they get the game in, and even then he spends the first ninety minutes of his shift shooing out the kids with soda cups and unjamming Galaga _again_. It’s not until seven — after most of the kids have gone home for dinner and before the teens have been loosed onto the mall by their parents — that Mika has a moment to check out the new machine.

It’s housed in a massive cabinet, unlike anything else they’ve got in the arcade. Hell, it’s got a _seat,_ not just some stool Keke’s nabbed from an estate sale. Leaning in to see the screen actually feels a bit like peering into a sports car for the first time, the same low-slung profile and risk of bumping your head. There is the little Formula 1 car, and there’s Mount Fuji in the pixelated distance. Mika straightens back up and looks around the arcade again. No one except the guy who’s been grinding Pac-Man for the past hour. This is as good of a chance he’ll get this shift.

Mika ducks back in, finding the pedal instinctively and testing the distance to the wheel. A little cramped, but so are Formula 1 cars. He brushes his hair out of his eyes as the title screen flashes. _Fuji Speedway._ The time change makes the Japanese GP a night race in New York — one of the one ones Mika can listen to with the volume on his radio turned all the way up and not worry about making too much noise in the morning. He’s imagined the turns of this track over and over again: practice, qualifying, race day. He follows the same pattern in the game. The songle qualifying lap first, then the race.

He manages to qualify fine, save a few dips onto the grass thanks to enthusiastic use of the throttle, but when he gets to the race he goes way wide out of turn 2. It puts him in the back of the pack, and he doesn’t even get the extended play. Mika curses, kicking the pedal and shaking the cabinet. Whatever, it’s a long summer, and he’ll have time to practice. At least it seems like his rusty karting skills haven’t left him totally useless. He’s just about to slide out of the seat when the high scores flash up on the screen.

There’s more than there should be for a game this new. And they’re all under the same name. _MS._

⁂

Mika works Sundays, Mondays, Tuesdays, and every other Thursday. MS, conveniently, works on Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and every other Thursday. He also has Lights Out’s high score in F-1 and Street Racer, though Mika has been able to claim P1 on Night Driver since April. Keke says MS is a good shift manager, he even stayed late to help install Pole Position, and that Mika should just call him Michael at this point, seriously, it’s been months. Then Keke wanders off for a smoke, muttering something about computers making a ruin of today’s youth.

Even after weeks of coming in early and staying late to get a few games in, Mika hasn’t managed to crack the high score. He holds second for a bit, then finds his score booted down to _fourth_ when he started his next shift. The circuit is familiar now, and Mika imagines driving it before he goes to bed. Then he goes to work and gets beaten by MS again. It’s making the summer even more interminable than it already was.

The next weekend, one of the motorsport magazines Mika’s subscribed to comes with a special feature on racing games — there’s even an interview with one of the designers behind Pole Position. Mika reads it three times and picks over the designer’s answers, looking for something that might give him an edge next time. If he could cut down his time by just a half a second, he would finally be able to top MS on the leaderboard.

His mom knocks on his doorframe, startling him into dropping the magazine. “Come on, we’re going to the mall,” she says.

Mika looks longingly at his magazine. “Do I have to come? I’m there like, every day.”

“There’s a clearance on winter coats at Macy’s and you could use a new one. Maybe a haircut, too.”

“I don’t need a haircut,” Mika mumbles, but he heads out into the hall. He pulls on his sneakers and stops to check his hair in the hall mirror, combing his bangs with his fingers until they lay flat.

Outside, his mom’s already started the car. “Come on, don’t leave the door open! We don’t live in a barn!”

Mika groans and runs out to hop in the car. He supposes this is what he gets for putting off college for another year — an extended twilight of his childhood, complete with involuntary shopping trips. Whatever, maybe he can make the best of this one and stop by the arcade for a few more rounds on the game. Maybe he can catch MS asleep at the wheel.

It’s a busy day, with every family in town packed into the mall to escape the sticky summer heat. The feeding frenzy at the Macy’s holds little appeal, especially since Mika finds a new coat in the first five minutes.

“Are you sure? It looks almost the same as your last one,” his mom says, frowning, but she puts it in the basket anyway. “Do you need shoes as well?”

His Nikes probably have another six months in them before the soles wear through, but they’re going to be at their most comfortable until then. “No, I was thinking I would stop by the arcade. Will you come get me when you’re ready to go?”

“You were just complaining about being there too much—” his mom starts, but Mika just shrugs.“Alright, suit yourself then.”

The arcade hasn’t escaped the onslaught of summer afternoon traffic either. Hordes of stoned-looking teenagers jockey for position at the cabinets with sticky-fingered kids whose parents are off enjoying a few minutes of peace in one of the stores. The warring sounds of dozens of different games transforms the arcade from the dark, shabby gaming emporium that Mika knows so well into a neon-lit wonderland. The whole effect makes the space something a little more special than a rented room in a shitty suburban mall.

Mika cashes out some quarters at the machine and then makes his way back to Pole Position. He anticipates a line, but what he doesn’t count on is the horde of people surrounding the cabinet, bobbing their heads to get a glimpse inside the cockpit. The strangest thing is that they’re almost silent, like the crowd is holding their breath. Mika’s never seen anything like it, not while he’s been on shift.

He takes a step closer, until he can hear the droning sounds of the virtual engine. It sounds good, smooth, until it’s cut through with the electric screech of oversteer and the low, rumbling sound of an animated explosion. A collective gasp and groan goes through the audience, even the ones who don’t have a view in. They all know what that sound means. Whoever’s driving just put it in one of the trackside billboards.

“Come on, my turn,” one kid says on the other side of the cabinet.

“You know what? Fine, fine, here — it’s all yours.” The driver climbs out and stretches his back. “Stupid game anyway, not even any gears.” He’s wearing a bright-red windbreaker with the Ferrari insignia embroidered on the chest. It crinkles as he moves. It looks ridiculous, especially over the tan polo shirt that Keke makes all the employees wear, the ones that sag with their heavy metal name tags.

MS in the flesh. He’s not as intimidating as Mika might have thought, or as ugly as he might have hoped. He has a serious face — not helped by the deep frown he’s leveling at the game he just quit — and he’s a bit awkwardly proportioned, slight but fit, as though he plays some kind of sport out in the real world. Mika's unimpressed by what appears to be a poorly-done perm, but he really looks like any other bored college kid stuck at home for the summer.

“Hey man, if you think you can do any better, be my guest,” Michael says, a little belligerently. Mika figures his staring hasn’t been appreciated.

“I’ll give it a shot,” Mika hedges, then gestures at Michael’s name tag. “Aren’t you meant to be… working?”

“This place practically runs itself. What’s it to you?”

Mika has to smile at that. “If the kids burn it down on your watch then I’m out of a job. Besides, I need you to stop practicing. I'm going to beat you at this damn game one day.” He kicks the corner of the cabinet, which elicits an indignant _Hey!_ from the kid inside.

"I work the other shifts."

Michael crosses his arms over his chest and looks at Mika like he’s a stubborn problem that needs working out. “You're HAK? Nice to finally meet you. You make it hard to keep all those records.”

Mika offers a hand out to shake, which Michael takes after a moment of hesitation. “You too. A responsible manager and humble too, I see why Keke keeps you around.”

“Very funny.”

“Yeah, that’s why Keke keeps _me_ around.”

Michael smiles, something mischievous in his eyes. “With the three of us, we’re practically a team. Keke’s the principal. First driver,” he points to himself, then at Mika. “Second driver. Lights Out Racing. It has a nice ring to it.”

It’s so blatantly rude and cocky that Mika is momentarily lost for words. He’s almost impressed by the gall. But then a scrum of acne-ridden teens come up to Michael and ask for help resetting a machine that’s on the fritz, and Michael is gone, saying goodbye with a shrug.

“Bastard,” Mika says, to no one in particular.

⁂

_No one_ comes in on Sunday nights, which is just fine by Mika. It means more time to practice, to get the turns and the throttle input just right so he has a chance of taking that number one spot on the leaderboard. Number two driver his ass.

“Looking good.”

Mika jumps so hard he nearly bashes his head on the top of the game. On the screen, his avatar slides off the road. Explosion. Rumble. Game over. Mika sits back in the seat and groans. “Jesus fucking christ, how long have you been there?”

Michael is peering into the cockpit, eyes wide in faux innocence. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I mean it, you were looking quick.”

“Yeah, thanks, you really helped me there.”

“You are taking more speed into the hairpin than I am.”

“Why are you here?” It’s unfair to be this pissed already, but honestly Mika had been itching to practice more ever since they met and he can’t exactly go again and have a chat with Michael at the same time. He fishes around in his jeans pocket for another quarter.

“Thought I might see you here. I was thinking we could both improve if we saw each other play. Hey— what are you doing?”

Mika stops with his quarter poised at the coin slot. “What do you mean? I’m playing another round.” Michael looks at him like he’s stupid, which seems to be his default expression. “What?”

“You actually pay for these things? Damn, Keke must be making a fortune off of you.”

Mika can feel his face heating up — he always blushed too easily. At least the room is dark enough to hide it. “What, and you don’t?”

Michael rolls his eyes and takes something out of his pocket, a smooth metal disc on what looks like fishing line. He leans into the cockpit and puts the disc into the slot a few times, pulling it back out with the line each time. The credits rack up on the screen. “There you go. Easy-peasy.”

Mika frowns at the screen. How many hours of pay has he put right back into these machines? And how much more practice could he have had if he’d had unlimited credits? Still, it doesn’t quite sit right with him. “Aren’t you worried Keke will see you doing that? You know how he feels about cheaters.”

“Hey now, cheating is a strong word. And if it’s between that and going slower, I think I’ll take the risk.” Michael says it with easy, unwavering self-confidence. He’s wearing that Ferrari jacket again. It looks better without the polo underneath.

Mika looks at the credits again and makes up his mind. He'd been making up time in all the right places before Michael had interrupted. Those tips from the magazine were good, and his handling of the car was only improving with each run. “Alright, you want to play head-to-head? How about this, we each get a practice round, then we do a shootout. Winner can buy pizza.”

⁂

Michael comes back to the arcade balancing two paper plates with pepperoni slices in his right hand and two bottles of Coke in his left. He walks right under the _No Food or Drink At Any Time_ sign that Keke had installed and sets it all down on the counter and he resolutely does not make eye contact with Mika until he has to. “Sorry, they were out of meatball. Figured this is the next best thing.”

 _Sorry_ sounds wrong coming out of his mouth. It’s not an apology for calling Mika a second driver or about the amount of fuming and cursing he did when Mika finished the game a full two seconds faster in the shootout, but Mika will take the victory where he can. He cracks his soda open and grins. “It’s no problem. Hm, Coke’s not quite podium champagne but I’ll take it.”

“I’m so happy I lost to a gracious winner.”

“And I’m happy to eat with such a dignified loser.”

“Come on, I got you pizza didn’t I? And I’ve still got the record.” Michael gets defensive so easily, which just means he cares about Mika’s opinion. It makes Mika smile, just a little bit.

“Then maybe we can call a truce,” Mika says, biting into his slice.

“At least until after we’re done eating.”

“And then?”

“Well if no one else is coming in, we could always do a rematch,” Michael says, surveying the empty arcade.

“A rematch? You won’t just let me just enjoy my victory in peace?”

“Well, unless you’re afraid of losing—”

“Am not.”

“Well then there’s no reason not to.” Michael drinks his Coke with a look of smug satisfaction. Mika likes it. He would like it even more if he could one-up the great MS twice in one day.

“I guess there’s not.”

“Great.”

“You’re on.”

⁂

_(Winter 2009)_

“Michael was always pushing the limits, you know. He was always calling me, _Mika, I’m in another situation,_ like it wasn’t his fault.”

“And you were always willing to come help me out of those situations,” Michael says, rolling his eyes and pouring himself a little more of the wine.

“I was never very subtle with you.”

“And neither was I.” Mika bumps his knee against Michael’s under the table. It should be illegal, to be this proud and sappy after so many years. Maybe it’s the red wine. Mika grabs another slice of pizza from the gleaming wood board in the center of the table.

“Hometown sweethearts,” Betsy says, with a dreamy sigh in her voice. “See, around the office I never would have guessed Michael would have such a _romantic_ backstory.”

Mika likes her. He likes anyone who sees Michael differently than Mika sees him. It's like the excitement of seeing him again for the first time.

“Well, there's not much romantic about contract law,” Michael hedges, dusting pizza crumbs from his lap. “Excuse me.” He stands up and squeezes Mika’s shoulder before heading towards the back of the restaurant, presumably in search of the bathrooms.

The waiter comes by to check on the meal, and Mika takes the opportunity to get another bottle of wine. It’s still early, and it’s not every day he gets to meet the partners at Michael’s firm. Besides, they’re barely around the corner from their house. A tipsy walk and some water when they get home never hurt anyone. The restaurant is trying too hard to be cool, but at least the edison lights are cozy and the music is pleasant.

The water returns with the second bottle, and Mika tells Betsy and her husband a little more about the updates he's making to his karting track, and then Michael is back, with an extra glimmer of excitement in his eyes. “You should check that out,” he says to Mika as he slides back into the bench seat.

“The bathrooms? Not so exciting, is it?”

“No, on the way there. You’ll know it when you see it.”

It's always a game with Michael, but Mika is used to it now. He excuses himself and follows Michael’s path to the back of the restaurant. Right where the beaded curtain sets off the hallway for the bathrooms is a small bank of pinball machines and arcade games, all of them in questionable shape.

And there’s Pole Position. And there’s the leaderboard. And there’s _MS,_ head and shoulders above the rest on the leaderboard.

Mika reaches into his pocket to see if he’s got any quarters to spare.

**Author's Note:**

> redpaint on tumblr
> 
> apologies to anyone with in-depth knowledge of: the 1980s, arcade management, Pole Position, how americans accessed f1 races before satellite TV, restaurant trends of the late 2000s, and the experience of being married for decades


End file.
